


a request for the violinist

by crashing_into_the_sun



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Baz Pitch - Freeform, Classical Music, Cute, Fluff, Gay, M/M, Music, Normal AU, Simon Snow - Freeform, Violins, basically just them being cuties, gay boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:15:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6943174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crashing_into_the_sun/pseuds/crashing_into_the_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon is awoken by a mysterious unknown violinist, and he decides to put in a request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a request for the violinist

At first, Simon thought the sweet music pouring from outside his door was a dream. After all, it was nearing three in the morning on a Tuesday, and it was a song he was quite familiar with- a slow, languid version of _What Child is This_. A fairly simple song, but played with such elegance and feeling that it seemed almost heavenly- another reason why Simon thought it must be a dream. It was too perfect, near ethereal, to be someone playing in real life. However, as the night drew on, and Simon watched the snow pile silently onto the empty street below his second-story flat window, he realized that he was unmistakably awake. Everything in his flat was too constant for a dream. The same coffee stains on his ceiling (Merlin knows how they got there), the same broken-down clock hanging on the wall, ticking steady seconds.

The tone of the music shifted, flowing effortlessly from the classic Christmas tune into a more upbeat pop song (was that _Taylor Swift_?). Simon sat motionless in his bed, the covers pulled up to his chin, a smile playing about his lips. He wondered who the violinist could be. He didn't know many of his neighbors, just the elderly older man on the first floor who had been here since way before Simon had moved in, and a mother and her two rambunctious children down the hall. Surely it couldn't be either of them- he'd never heard the music before, for one, and they'd probably all be asleep at this hour.

It struck him suddenly, as the pop song was drawing to a close and the musician played a few scales. It had to be the new guy, a tall, dark-haired man he'd seen only glimpses of as the moving truck was pulling into the car park below. He'd been clothed in a dark grey shirt and dress pants, and Simon had watched, intrigued, from his window while he sipped his morning coffee. The man looked very posh. It wouldn't have surprised Simon to see him stroking a bow along the strings of a well-polished violin, not one bit.

He was fully awake now, and he pulled himself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his heavy eyes. He rinsed out a cup and set the coffee maker. Then, out of nowhere, the silence was broken by an angry, angst-filled classical piece, with sharp, jabbing notes. Notes that could draw blood. It was the kind of song that would be accompanied by a flush-cheeked musician, and Simon could picture the man's long, dark hair spilling across his forehead as he drew the bow along the neck almost violently, brow furrowed in concentration. He poured a steaming cup of coffee and sat at the table, stirring it and enjoying the music. It hit a striking crescendo and ended as abruptly as it had started.

A sudden bit of inspiration came to Simon as the next soft strain came floating down the hall. A memory crept from the depths of his brain, making its groggy way to the forefront of his thoughts. Bright blonde hair and kind, crinkly blue eyes. Sitting on a bouncing knee. Music streaming from a tinny radio as his mother rocked a smaller Simon happily to sleep. He stopped the memory there. Any further and it would turn sour, he knew. He tried not to think much about his childhood.

The nearest piece of paper was a crumbled receipt for a box of cherry scones, and he grabbed and scrawled a messy few words. His heart was beating faster than normal and he wasn't sure why. Simon opened the door to his flat as quietly as he could and padded down the carpeted hallway. The melody had softened to an almost imperceptible volume, and he followed it to the room right next to his. The door was adorned with a "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging from the doorknob. With his ear pressed to the door, he could make out the song more clearly, and it was so gentle and pretty that he almost didn't want to interrupt. (He interrupted anyway).

-

A soft knock came at the door, and Baz jerked his head up towards it. A bedraggled looking note was slid through the crack, and Baz caught a glimpse of chewed fingernails on a tan hand before he heard footsteps leading away from the door. He got up and scratched the back of his neck, scoffing at himself for practicing so late. It was probably a noise complaint. Baz set his violin down at the coffee table and pushed his music aside to pick up the note.

He inhaled sharply, surprised. Written in messy, childlike handwriting- _A humble request to the violinist- Bach's Chaconne in D Minor._

A florid blush danced on his cheeks and he found himself smiling. _Couldn't hurt_ , he thought, and found his laptop, starting it up and looking up the song. Baz sucked in his cheeks- almost fifteen minutes long. _Oh, well_. He pulled up some digital sheet music and looked it over. It was difficult, especially for sight reading, but not impossible.

Then Baz wrote his own note and placed it in the middle of the hallway, face up (" _Anything for my fans_ ,"). He cracked the door ever so slightly and began playing.

The naturalness with which the piece spilled from his fingers shocked him. It was beautiful, full of depth and a gradually building emotion that Baz felt deep within him. He only made a few minor mistakes within the first few measures before he got the hang of it, catching the rhythm and the tempo. His fingers flew nimbly over the strings, almost of their own accord, and he lost himself in the music. It was almost like he was floating, the notes carrying him on a wave of adrenaline and bliss. As he hit the last note, applause thundered from the hallway.

Baz waited until his heartbeat had slowed and the vibrato from the final touch of the strings had faded from the air before he went out to the source of the applause. A man about his own age, early twenties or so, stood barefoot and shirtless outside his door, clapping wildly. His bronze curls bounced with excitement and his smile was so big it took up more than half his broad face, nearly closing his almond-shaped blue eyes entirely. "You're brilliant," he declared, and only then did Baz realize his own face was tear-streaked. His hair was damp with sweat and his hands shook from the intensity of his playing.

"Th-thank you," Baz stumbled over his words, and then cursed himself silently. "I'm Baz." He held out a hand to shake. The man took it. His hands were smooth.

"Simon. My uhh.. My mother used to play that song for me. When I was little, before she... Anyway," he said sheepishly. "I just heard you, and you sounded so good. I thought you might know it."

"I didn't know it, actually," Baz replied. "But I like it a lot."

"You did a lovely job with it. Better than I've ever heard it. You sounded like a recording, almost. More feeling." Simon bit at the inside of his cheek, trying not to look like he was checking Baz out. He was intensely gorgeous, the kind of beauty that hits you square over the head and is impossible to ignore. He looked like a model, with flawless golden brown skin and sharp cheekbones and silky hair pulled up into a bun on top of his head. Simon had a strange urge to rearrange his face just a little, reach out and tug his nose down a half inch, but he didn't move. Instead, he just looked, drinking in the sight of him.

"Why don't you come in and I'll make some tea?" Baz suggested. "Unless you want to go get dressed first." Simon looked down at himself, as if he was suddenly realizing he was still in his pajama bottoms, and that he had no shirt on.

"Oh, right, s-sorry about that," he stuttered and fled back into his room, pulling on his least mangled pair of sweatpants and a navy blue sweater with a picture of a kitten peeking out of the breast pocket. At the last second, he grabbed some slippers. Baz was waiting amusedly outside his door.

"I like your sweater," he commented, and gestured at Simon to follow him into the flat. It was nice, simply but expensively furnished, with a few abstract-looking paintings hung on the stark white walls. Baz put a kettle on the stove and came out. Baz sat down on the couch. "I don't bite, you know," Baz laughed when Simon sat on a chair in the corner. He patted the cushion next to him. "Hard." Simon blushed (he'd been blushing an awful lot tonight, he noted).

"So how long have you been living here?" Baz asked after a few moments of awkward silence. Simon looked at him wide-eyed, as if taken aback by the fact that Baz was speaking.

"Um, a few months. But I'm glad you've moved in now. None of my neighbors have been half so interesting." Then he broke eye contact self-consciously. His eyes flitted about the room, settling on the muted television screen. His discomfort was palpable.

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to, you know," Baz said gently. "I just thought you might like to chat. It's okay if you don't."

"No, no, that's not it!" Simon said. "I just..." He trailed off. Baz looked at him expectantly. "I'm just not very good at... with... talking. Is all."

"That's fine," Baz acquiesced. "I can do the talking." From the kitchen, the kettle shrieked. "I'll get that."

As soon as Baz left the room, Simon got up to search for a pen and paper. He frantically opened drawers and moved around car magazines sitting on the coffee table until he unearthed a bit of stationary and a sharpened pencil. He began to scribble words down as fast as he could think them. "Cream and sugar?" Baz called from the kitchen. Simon nodded, then realized Baz couldn't see him.

"Sure," he called. He bit the inside of his cheek in concentration. Pretty... No, that's the wrong word. He crossed it out. Handsome... No, that's wrong, too.

Baz walked back in carrying two coffee mugs. One was red with white stripes, and the other was black and had a football on it. "This is yours," he said, setting the red and white one down in front of Simon. "I hope I didn't put too much sugar in it. I can go make a new one if- wait, what are you doing?" Simon held up a finger, and Baz sat down, puzzled. The pencil moved at lightning speed over the paper, pausing occasionally as Simon reworded something. When he was satisfied at last, he read it over, folded it, and gave it to Baz, walking out the door. He left his tea on the table. It got cold.

-

"Guess what I found yesterday?" Baz asked, a devilish grin painted across his face. Simon gulped. This couldn't be good.

"What did you find?" He asked suspiciously, eyeing Baz across the table. He looked dapper in his emerald green suit. He'd insisted that they go out for their anniversary, to a fancy restaurant instead of just to the movies or the 24-hour diner they usually went to, and Simon was feeling itchy and uncomfortable in a grey tuxedo. He had to admit, though, he did look good- Baz was a master when it came to fashion, and he had Simon dressed to the nines. Looking almost as good as Baz did on a regular basis.

Baz reached into his wallet and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper, ripped in one corner. The breath caught in Simon's throat. "My- my note? But why... That was two years ago. Why would you keep..."

"I kept it because it's the cutest thing I've ever read," Baz responded, unfolding the paper and clearing his throat,

"No- Basil, don't you dare read that out loud-" but it was too late. Baz smirked. Simon covered his face with his hands.

" _Baz_ ," he began, drawing the words out. Simon groaned. " _I didn't know how to say this, so I wrote it down instead. I think you're_ \- rather indecisive with the word choice, are we? You've crossed three different things out- _I think you're gorgeous and you play the violin like a god, or something. I would love to take you out sometime. Or take you home sometime. Preferably both. Whatever you like. Just call me, okay? -Simon_." Simon had his head down on the table.

"Are you done torturing me?"

"Never, darling." Baz laughed and brushed his foot against Simon's ankle. Simon blushed. Baz waved a waitress over and asked for the check. "So, I've taken you out. Now let me take you home."

Simon spluttered. "I- I... Okay."

"You are such a dork," Baz teased on the way out the door, placing a kiss on the top of Simon's head. His curls tickled Baz's nose. "And you look stunning in a grey suit. How about we get you out of it?" He winked at Simon.

Simon tugged on his sleeve. "That could be arranged."

**Author's Note:**

> Also on tumblr, my blog name is the same as my ao3 name (crashing-into-the-sun). Hope you enjoy, constructive criticism is welcome and wanted :)


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